


the last star in the sky

by bstarship



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Dead Peter Parker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, Minor Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Please Forgive me, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Loves Peter Parker, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, i promise it's ok at the end, i'll say it right now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26883043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bstarship/pseuds/bstarship
Summary: The air in New York was stale, cold breezes bringing in autumn while pilates in the park carried on. Strangers in a downward dog pose behaved as relics to the city that Peter had grown up into. That Spider-Man had taken on as a sudden force of nature, unable to be stopped by anyone who stood in his way. Over time, Tony learned to not let fear take over his life. He wished he could take it back now. He wished he could turn back time.It was a nightmare he still hoped to wake up from. He wanted to open his eyes to a few dozen texts again, to a city sans graffiti and memorials where Peter’s masked face was splattered on every surface possible. Tony didn’t have a single thing in his stomach besides coffee, yet nausea overwhelmed when he least expected it to.If he had known then what he knew now, the sun would shine a little brighter, the sky would be a little clearer. The city would feel like home again, and a sixteen-year-old kid would still be alive.orIn the arms of Tony Stark is New York’s beloved hero. Fallen. Dead. As the days pass, they learn that grief is only a temporary thing.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 150





	1. Chapter 1

Tony wished he had said something. He wished he kept Peter from walking out in that suit, his spirit still intact as he swung around the city with his head held high. If Tony could turn back time, he would. He wished he had known. If he had known… 

It felt like a rock in his stomach, slowly building and weighing him down until his appetite inevitably failed. Time passed by slowly. Sleep felt like nothing but a folk tale he refused to believe in. If he had known that things would end this way. If he had known that the kid’s days were numbered.

Tony would have taken his place. 

The air in New York was stale, cold breezes bringing in autumn while pilates in the park carried on. Strangers in a downward dog pose behaved as relics to the city that Peter had grown up into. That Spider-Man had taken on as a sudden force of nature, unable to be stopped by anyone who stood in his way. Over time, Tony learned to not let fear take over his life. He wished he could take it back now. He wished he could turn back time. 

It was a nightmare he still hoped to wake up from. He wanted to open his eyes to a few dozen texts again, to a city sans graffiti and memorials where Peter’s masked face was splattered on every surface possible. Tony didn’t have a single thing in his stomach besides coffee, yet nausea overwhelmed when he least expected it to. 

If he had known then what he knew now, the sun would shine a little brighter, the sky would be a little clearer. The city would feel like home again, and a sixteen-year-old kid would still be alive. 

Two days ago, Peter Parker had died.

He was the first one there that night, the first one fighting through smoke and debris as hot cinders sizzled against his armor. Tony hadn’t worn the suit in months—retirement seemed too beautiful to be in his future, but it was that beauty he longed for. He only stepped in the suit when he needed to. He wished, in this case, that he hadn’t needed to. 

When FRIDAY said that there had been an explosion, he didn’t think much about it. But then her voice came through again, unfamiliar and sad as if she had been truly sentient all along. Peter was there too, she said. And his vitals…

Tony took off into the night sky faster than he ever had before. 

“You tell me that he’s okay,” he had said to FRIDAY through the turbulence. “You tell me that kid is okay. You tell me right fucking now, Fri. You hear me?” 

_“I hear you_ ,” she told him. She kept her voice calm for him. 

Tony clenched his jaw, memorizing the way his lungs shrunk with each breath. _Not now_. _Not now._ A shaky exhale emerged. “FRIDAY, please,” he said. 

_“Boss,”_ she replied quietly. _“He’s dropping.”_

Tony couldn’t remember the rest of the flight. He didn’t know how he made it to Queens in one piece. The wind whistled around him, blowing smoke from the dying fire high into the air while he drowned out the sounds of sirens down below. His hands and feet had fallen numb. 

He didn’t think he could speak anymore after that. The building once stood tall, towering four stories, but that night, it sat at his feet in a mountain of rubble and stone. Peter was beneath it all. Somewhere, buried deep. Somewhere, slipping unconscious with no one to hold his hand. 

For a moment, Tony stood in horror and took it all in. The smoke stung at his eyes through his helmet, yet they had already begun to water for reasons he wouldn’t disclose. He could hear his heartbeat loud in his ears. 

“Scan—” Tony swallowed the dry air. “Scan it. Please. Do it for me, Fri.”

He hoped that Peter wasn’t there. He was strong. He could get himself out of sticky situations. He was off on a rooftop somewhere catching his breath. But this time, that wasn’t true. Peter was there. A heat signature falling cold beneath the rubble. 

Tony’s adrenaline was the only thing keeping him going. His voice was raw yet he still screamed out Peter’s name. His real name. Not Spider-Man. Not _kid_.

Just _“Peter!”_ until his throat burned, metallic taste on the tongue. 

His fears set in. Peter was lying there under a cluster of bricks, mask torn down the middle, ribs battered, and skin burned. Eyes closed. Each breath he took was ragged and heavy like he was hardly taking them at all. Like he was waiting for the last one to arrive. 

Tony didn’t think, of all the times Peter evaded death, that this would be it. 

_“Boss_ , _"_ FRIDAY said.

“Is there—” Tony’s voice was trapped in his throat. “Is there anything I can…”

_“No.”_

A surge of anger overpowered him. He tore the bricks off of Peter’s body, fighting through the pain in his lungs while he refused to let his hope die. The air was hot and thick, the fire still crackling around them. Sirens penetrated through the settling silence. 

“Pete, h-hey,” Tony sputtered out, cradling Peter’s neck and holding onto his arm with a tight grip. “Peter? You—you with me, bud?” 

Half of his face had been exposed. Half of his face had been bloodied and bruised. Underneath it all, it was still Peter. His kid was still there.

When Peter moved his hand on top of Tony’s, that sliver of hope returned. A gasp of breath passed through his lips, hard yet weak like he was fighting for his strength. He let out a handful of coughs. 

“Pete, can you breathe?” Tony asked, faceplate lifting. “Can you hear me?”

A soft hum answered him, and he could feel Peter nod in his hand. So small, it was as if he hadn’t moved at all. Peter didn’t open his eyes. Meanwhile, Tony could hear the shouts of firefighters along the street, and he feared that his time with Peter would be cut too short prematurely. 

Tony knew—underneath it all—he had to hold on to what little time was left. 

Peter’s breathing was too slow. The muscles in his face were too relaxed. He wasn’t fighting. He wasn’t worried. _Tony was there. Tony would save him_. 

“Kid,” Tony said as he tried his best to smile. “You did great. Just—just listen to me, okay? And everything’s gonna be okay. I promise. Have I ever let you down?”

Peter’s voice was hoarse as he whispered, “tons of times.” 

Tony chuckled. It wasn’t real. What was happening? It wasn’t real. “Okay, well, you’re not exactly innocent.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you—” He bit his tongue, allowing the bitterness and the pain to tether his frustration. He wasn’t mad at Peter. He was just _mad_. At the world. At himself. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Not to Peter. It wasn’t real. “You can’t be sorry, Pete. You don’t need to be sorry.”

The delicate flutter of Peter’s eyelid behaved as an answer. Distant flames reflected in the red streaking down his cheek, and Tony counted each breath the kid took. 

“I want you to know, Pete, it’s—” Tony felt the words catch on his tongue. He wasn’t ready. “—it’s okay if you can’t hang on anymore. You’ve made us so proud. Me, your aunt, Happy, and all your friends. Your uncle. Your parents. They’re all so proud of you.”

The corner of Peter’s lips twitched. Tony swore he could have seen a tear. 

“And gosh, Pete, all of the people you saved—” Tony realized that had begun to cry too. It suddenly felt too real. “You are the best damn hero—the best damn Avenger—I’ve ever known. And you’ve been the best damn kid. You have become such a son to me this past year, kiddo, and I’m so thankful for you.”

Peter seemed so at peace as Tony spoke. The fight was over. And Tony’s chest felt like it was caving in. 

“We’ll be okay, bud,” Tony said softly. “You’ll be okay. I’m proud of you.”

Peter’s body was still. Calm. As Tony pulled his hand away from Peter’s cheek, the world froze for them. There were no firefighters, no worries or woes weighing them down. No one was around to take Peter from Tony’s arms as he held him tight, desperate to hear his nagging once again as the last breath died. Nothing but the final moment.

Tony would turn back time if he could. He would erase his role in Peter’s life just to save the kid from a world of pain. He would have taken his place. 

* * *

They sat in silence for a while. May’s eyes were red and puffy from the many hours of crying while Tony was stuck with a sick feeling in his stomach. They hadn’t spoken much in the past few days, but she had hugged him tight, slickened his shoulder with her tears as she screamed out for her nephew. The sound made Tony’s heart splinter. 

She had been staying with him ever since. The thought of stepping back into her apartment—a place where Peter lived with her—was too nauseating. It was only yesterday when the news broke to the world. She needed someone to shield her eyes for a little while as the grief subsided. Tony said she was welcome for as long as she needed, and Pepper did too. 

What hurt Tony most of all was the silence. May used to smile. She used to dance to commercial jingles on the off-chance that someone would join her. He didn’t know her well, but he knew the light she carried with her despite her hardships. Without Peter, the world seemed dull. 

Tony didn’t blame her for taking her coffee black. He didn’t blame her for crying over burnt toast that she scraped off in the sink. He didn’t blame her for bird-watching or cleaning his kitchen when all she needed was to keep herself busy. 

But now, they were sitting on his couch, cradling cups of coffee while the silence trickled in once again. There was a lot to discuss but nothing to say. 

May took a breath, clutching her mug a little tighter as she quietly said, “I want to tell them.”

Tony didn’t understand. He urged her to continue without a verbal answer, and she eventually met his eyes. 

She pressed her lips into a fine line. “I want to tell them,” she said again, voice cracking. “They deserve to know who Spider-Man was.”

The feeling was odd. And the way she looked at him, determination and honesty in every word, haunted him to his core. It was her choice, yet he wasn’t sure why he felt so hesitant. Like there was a chance—a sliver of hope—still floating around somewhere. He didn’t know why. 

Instead of saying how he felt, Tony nodded. Nothing he said mattered anymore. “Okay. We’ll tell them.”

May still held tears in her eyes when she spoke about Peter. She wouldn’t lose that for quite some time. She tried to smile at Tony as she sipped on her coffee. 

“I can—” He cleared his throat. It hurt to talk about, no matter what. Because in all honesty, Tony blamed himself. He was never going to stop blaming himself. “I can arrange a service.”

“Public,” she told him. 

He nodded. “We’ll make it public.” 

“And I can—I’ll ask his friends if they wanna speak,” May said, timid and weak as if it pained her to talk. “He and Ned had been friends for—” She exhaled. “—eleven years. I just want everyone to know who Peter was. The person behind the mask. The one w-who saved them.” 

A couple of tears slipped down May’s cheeks, and she wiped them away as soon as they came. 

Tony had met Ned for the first time the morning after. He already knew about Peter, but hearing the words from Tony was something different. Something new. He could have never imagined hearing about his best friend’s death this way. There were so many things that he wanted Ned to know, but at the moment, there wasn’t much to be said. Yesterday was the first time Tony met Ned, and he hugged him as he cried. 

He didn’t know who broke the news to MJ. Tony didn’t want to imagine it.

“I think you’re right,” he said to May. 

She nodded. “He would want it this way.”

Tony cracked a small smile. “He would also want a giant inflatable Spider-Man and a piñata full of sour gummy worms,” he said, chuckling at the thought. 

She managed a laugh as well, but it died quicker than it came. Her smile trembled into a frown. “What am I gonna do?” she whispered, this time allowing her tears to fall. She looked at Tony with watery eyes. “What am I gonna do now?” 

For the first time in his life, Tony was at a loss for words. He held his jaw tight, swallowing harshly as he thought of how to console her. How could he console her when he couldn’t help himself?

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, resting a hand on hers. “That’s a promise.”

“Don’t go making promises you can’t keep, Tony,” she replied with a hint of lightness in her tone. 

Tony didn’t know if he was lying. He didn’t know if he was telling the truth. All he could do was tell her what she needed to hear. All he could do was lie to himself, and maybe he would end up believing it. 

* * *

Ned had come home late from a shift at the frozen yogurt shop, book bag in tow as he rubbed a crusted layer of froyo from his t-shirt. The apartment kitchen was spotless, scrubbed clean of dinner, yet the scent of _kaldereta_ remained in the air. He could hear his mom humming from the bathroom while the news played on mute in the living room. 

He set his belongings down at the dining room table with his mind set on leftovers. A customer interaction from earlier replayed over in his head. 

_“So, what is moc-key?”_

_It took him a few seconds to understand what they were asking._ _“Oh, mochi,” he said, smiling. “It’s Japanese. It’s like a sweetened rice cake.”_

_The customer scrunched their nose up in disgust._

_“It’s really good, I swear.”_

_“I don’t like cake,” was what they said._

_Ned didn’t know how to reply to that. “Well, it’s not actually cake,” he told them. “It’s rice, sugar, water, and I think cornstarch. But it’s really good.”_

_“I’m allergic to cornstarch.”_

_“Oh.” Ned faked another smile. “Anything else I can get for you?”_

As he peeled the Tupperware lid open, Ned closed his eyes and leaned up against the open door of the fridge. He had been dreaming about food for the past six hours. If the idea of hot food didn’t sound so appetizing, he would have dove in cold. 

“ _S_ _alamat_ , _Inay!_ ” he called before sticking the leftovers in the microwave. He turned his attention to the muted TV in the living room, interest spiking as a video of a burning building was displayed on the news. 

_BREAKING NEWS: EXPLOSION IN QUEENS_

Ned walked across the room to unmute the TV. 

“—at York College campus tonight,” said the announcer. “The dorm building had been evacuated by the time authorities were on the scene. There is no further information if anyone was hurt. Reports are stating that Queens’ own Spider-Man was there, but there has been no video or photographic evidence as of yet. We will have updates on the situation once—”

Ned stopped listening after that; he was too busy watching a building collapse on live television, heart racing at the thought of his best friend being anywhere near something like that. But it was Peter—Peter could do anything.

While Ned was preoccupied with the elaborate story he was expecting to hear at school tomorrow, the microwave beeped. He leapt up to his feet, excitement rushing over him, and pushed back the thoughts of the explosion. 

He could have passed out at his first taste of the stew. After only eating a few bites of frozen yogurt since three in the afternoon, the only thing on Ned’s mind was his mother’s cooking. And, of course, the thick stack of homework weighing down his backpack that was all due tomorrow. 

Ned was in heaven. He couldn’t help but smile. Nothing in the world could replace his mother’s cooking, that was certain. 

He hadn’t been prepared for what came next.

“This just in—” the announcer said on the television, voice mellowing with the topic. “Incredibly sad news tonight. We have just gotten word that the beloved Queens hero, Spider-Man, has died. After aiding in evacuating several York College students—”

The bowl of kaldereta slipped from Ned’s fingers and clattered onto the countertop below, stew spilling along the marble surface until it dripped to the hardwood floor. The words were right there before his eyes. 

_BREAKING NEWS: SPIDER-MAN HAS DIED_

Nothing else. Not an identity reveal. Not Peter. _Spider-Man has died_. 

Ned felt frozen in place. He couldn’t feel his sore feet from working all afternoon. He couldn’t feel his hunger anymore; he couldn’t feel anything. The announcer’s voice was stuck on repeat in his head. _Spider-Man has died. Spider-Man has died_. 

Peter. _Peter has died_.

Ned wanted to laugh it off. He wanted to believe it wasn’t true. It was Peter. Peter always got up no matter how hard he was knocked down. Peter was Spider-Man, and Spider-Man never died. Ned had only spoken to Peter hours ago, and he was fine. He couldn’t be dead. 

A video changed his mind. 

On the right side of the screen, surrounded by fire and debris, Iron Man walked through the rubble of the building toward firefighters and reporters. His eyes shone through the darkness, bold and bright. And in his arms—

Ned fell to the floor, knees hitting the hardwood as he stared at the television with his mouth wide open. His eyes welled with tears. 

It was Peter. Peter couldn’t die. He was Spider-Man, and Spider-Man never died. But no matter how many times Ned wanted to believe it, an unsettling feeling sunk in his gut. Like he knew that this time, Peter wasn’t going to get up. He wasn’t going to shake it off. He was lying limp in Tony Stark’s arms, unmoving, and he would never move again. 

Ned didn’t know what to do. 

_“Inay!”_ he cried out. 

“Ned? _Ok ka lang?_ ” she called back, rushing into the room. “What’s wrong?”

She bent down beside him, eyes full of worry as if he had fallen and hurt himself, but he couldn’t stop staring at the news. At the words. _Spider-Man has died._

He looked at his mother with tears in his eyes, and everything clicked. Ned had lost his best friend. 

* * *

MJ had finished her homework on the train again. By nine o’clock that night, she had pasta and cheese in her system and _Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center_ by bell hooks in her lap. With her mother on the night shift, she had the home to herself until morning, and nothing was stopping her from reading until her eyes grew too heavy to open. 

Tonight, however, the words didn’t seem to stick. She found herself rereading page thirty-two for the past half-hour, unable to absorb anything that was written. Out of frustration, she carried on to page thirty-three, but the issue remained. MJ’s mind was elsewhere.

She couldn’t remember how, but she made Peter laugh at school that day. It was some sarcastic comment about a teacher, slyly muttered under her breath for only him to hear. He had to stifle his laughter so he wouldn’t get caught, and then Ned wanted in on the joke too. And for the rest of the day, that was where her mind resided. Caught up in Peter Parker’s stupid laughter. _Ridiculous._

She refused to think about the crinkles by his eyes when his smile took up his entire face. She could absolutely _not_ think about it. Otherwise, she would be stuck on page thirty-three until sunrise, imagining a myriad of scenarios where she made him laugh again. 

With a frustrated sigh, she turned to page thirty-four. “Stupid,” she muttered to herself, thoughts still preoccupied. “Such a loser.”

Her phone buzzed from beside her. There was a text from her mother.

**_Explosion in Queens. Are you okay!?_ **

MJ rolled her eyes, typing out a quick reply.

**_I’m good. Where was it?_ **

**_York College_ **

_Damn_ , MJ thought, _that’s close._ She peered out the window, yet all she could see was the pitch-black sky and the faint reflection of her face and her room behind her. Instead of replying to her mother again, she set her phone down and returned to page thirty-four. Her mind went right back to where it left off.

He had proven himself in Decathlon practice, but then again, he always did. Why Peter was still in high school and not already in college baffled her. She was confident he could out-test all of the junior class. What she liked most about him was his timidness. He held himself small—meek enough to be too anxious to speak up in class yet confident enough to make fun of Flash if he got an AcaDeca answer wrong. 

But what she liked most of all was the shy smile he wore when she complimented him. It was nothing more than a _great job_ or even just _nice_ , yet it was there. She was the reason behind that smile. 

MJ had almost given up on reading when her phone buzzed again. In this case, it was a Twitter notification. One that momentarily stopped her heart.

_Breaking News: Beloved Queens superhero, Spider-Man, has died_

She stared at her phone, unsure of her ability to trust the news these days. Unsure of when she had downloaded Twitter in the first place. Nevertheless, she opened the notification, preparing for the flood of tweets and articles with the same jarring headline. It was exactly what she expected, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it. The news had already started trending. 

Spider-Man? No way. He couldn’t be dead. That wasn’t possible. He was a superhero. An _Avenger_. He knew Captain America and Iron Man and—

Peter. 

MJ’s brain clouded with thoughts of Peter again. She didn’t have an answer to her suspicions and most likely never would. But something felt wrong. Her stomach flipped, heart heavy and lungs tight as her mind scrambled. She pushed strands of hair away from her eyes and shakily read every article she could find.

Nothing mentioned Peter. _Why wouldn’t they mention Peter?_

What if he wasn’t Spider-Man? _What if he was?_ What if they didn’t know? _What if it was him?_

MJ felt sick to her stomach. He had laughed at something she said earlier that day. He talked to her, smiled at her, and let her borrow a pencil when she ran out of lead. She had just seen him.

She was calling his number before she could think about it.

It rang five times before his voicemail answered.

_“Hey, it’s Peter. Leave a message!”_

She clenched her jaw and sniffed, dialing the number once again as her eyes water. She enjoyed being right, as one would, but for once, she hoped she wasn’t. She hoped she wasn’t right about him being Spider-Man. 

It rang another five times, going straight to voicemail, and she waited for the beep so she could say,

“Peter, stop messin’ around,” she said, voice straining. “Answer the phone. Please, just answer the phone. I—you need to answer the phone when people call you, Peter. It’s not funny. Just… just call me back. Please.”

MJ sat back against the wall, closing her eyes while the bed shifted beneath her. Her heart raced, and her tears fell before she could hold them back. She didn’t know the truth—she once liked to think that she knew everything, but she desperately wished that she knew nothing. She wished she hadn’t seen him bail from parties, Nationals, and dances. She wished she hadn’t seen Spider-Man that day in D.C., because then she just _knew_. 

She knew Peter was Spider-Man.

Now Spider-Man was dead, and Peter wasn’t answering his phone. 

MJ exhaled slowly, breath wavering as she called the next person she could think of. He answered right away. 

“Ned,” she said before he could greet her. “Ned, was it—”

“MJ.”

The sound of his voice was enough. She bit back the tremble in her lip, eyebrows tugging together and tears falling faster. She didn’t know how to breathe, yet meanwhile, she had never breathed so hard and fast before, her lungs aching with each inhale. 

“Ned,” she repeated. “Was it Peter?”

Ned’s soft cries could be heard through the phone. She knew. _She knew_. But her heart still dropped when his meek voice whispered, “yes.” 

* * *

Three days after Peter’s death, Tony was drinking again. He hadn’t stepped outside, hadn’t showered, and hadn’t had a single waffle since. In a few short hours, the world would know who Spider-Man was. They would grieve, he would try not to cry _in public_ , and they would all go back to their daily lives. But Tony wouldn’t. May wouldn’t. Peter’s friends wouldn’t. Anyone who knew the punk would spend the rest of their lives realizing that they would never know him again. 

At two in the morning, Tony sat at his kitchen counter with a mug full of whatever liquor he could find. Peter, in the fashion of his punny t-shirts, had gifted Tony a yard sale mug that said ‘ _The only elements I need are Co F Fe’._ There was a chip along the rim and coffee stains down at the bottom, but Tony would never get rid of it. 

Why would he ever want to?

It had been thoughtful. It had become Tony’s favorite mug overnight, and now he was drinking malt whiskey _or_ _something_ out of it. 

It was two in the morning, Pepper and May were upstairs asleep, and Tony couldn’t get his brain to shut up. The whiskey tasted like water on his tongue, but his stomach ached with each swallow. 

“Good fucking job,” he muttered to himself. There was nothing but a stove light to illuminate the room. Nothing but the distant drone of the air conditioning to accompany him and his thoughts. “You killed him, Tony. Good fucking job.”

He sighed, holding his head in his hands as counteractive thoughts bounced around from ear to ear. He wasn’t to blame, but he was to blame. He couldn’t make up his mind. All he could hear was May’s heartbreaking cry. All he could smell was smoke, floating around him wherever he went. All he could see was the tinged red-and-blue suit stuck to burnt and bloodied skin. All he could think about was the kid—the sixteen-year-old kid—and how much life he still had to live. 

Bile rose to Tony’s throat, yet he swallowed his back down with a quick swig from his mug. His eyes were sore and glassy; they hadn’t rested in over seventy-two hours. He was about to break his record. 

He needed sleep. He needed a waffle. He needed Peter to not be fucking _dead_. 

Tony’s phone vibrated in his pocket all of the sudden, and a second later, a familiar ringtone echoed through the room. 

_You get the limo out front… hottest styles, every shoe, every color…_

His eyebrows furrowed, and his heart tugged in his chest. Why had he picked _that_ song? 

It used to annoy him, but right now Tony wanted to hear it all night long. He couldn’t move his limbs. He could hardly register the fact that it was his phone—that the ringtone he chose specifically for one person was still playing. 

Tony could hear his heartbeat in his ears as he fumbled for the phone in his pocket. 

That… wasn’t possible. 

He stared at the name until it disappeared, and he continued to look at the screen once the missed call notification popped up. Tony’s hands shook around the device, but otherwise, he still couldn’t move. 

Whether it was the alcohol in his system or the numbing grief he had encountered, he wasn’t thinking a single thought. He was in shock. 

His phone rang again, Hannah Montana reverberating loudly against the tiled floors. The same name displayed on his screen, bold and brash as if it were mocking him.

Tony reached a shaky finger up to answer the call and pressed the phone to his ear. 

_“Hey—oh, thank God, Mister Stark. I was so freaked out that everyone like, disappeared for some reason cos’ May’s not home and Ned’s not answering his phone. And then you weren’t answering, so I was like ‘oh, my God, I woke up in some alternative universe where I’m the only person alive’_ _but then you answered, which is relieving. Hi. Do you know where May is?”_

Tony stared blankly across the room, eyes watering and breath catching in his throat. All he could muster out was, _“Peter?”_


	2. Chapter 2

“Shit,” Peter said as he awoke, head splitting to a sickening degree. His voice had come out hoarse, throat rough and metallicy while the colors underneath his closed eyelids spun into oblivion. The next thing he felt was a shiver run down his arms. When he opened his eyes, he was met with pitch-black darkness. 

The air was thin, almost unbreathable. If he shifted, the scratchy material around him crinkled. He couldn’t breathe. _God_ , _he couldn’t breathe._

He felt around for an escape, fingers running along the teeth of a zipper before finding the tab to tug down. But even then, Peter was gasping for air. The stabbing pain in his head worsened. 

He let out a groan, reaching up to cup his head, but his hand met metal before it could raise any higher. The throb in his knuckles quickly subsided once he realized that there was metal beneath him as well. And to his right and left. It was all around him. 

The headache seemed irrelevant suddenly as panic built in his chest. His breaths echoed around him in the cold, confined space. With the little strength he felt, he kicked at the metal below his feet. 

“Shit, _shit_ ,” Peter gasped out as the cold stung at his bare skin. “Okay. Okay. You can do this. C’mon,” he whispered to himself and slammed his foot into the metal again, feeling it mold beneath his weight. “Yes! Yes.”

He kicked until the metal crunched and broke away, revealing darkness once again, but he gladly crawled out into it. The air was warmer. Fresher— _almost_. As he set his feet down onto the tiled floor, his knees gave out, and he collapsed. 

“Crap,” he muttered, rubbing at his elbow. The material he had previously fought out of crumpled to the floor around him. With a sharp inhale, Peter pulled himself up to his feet and held onto a nearby surface for balance. He couldn’t see a damn thing. 

His feet, accompanied by wobbly knees, carried him across the room while his hands searched for a source of light. After a few seconds, he hit a wall with a light switch. The sudden burst of fluorescence burned his eyes. 

Using the heels of his palms, Peter rubbed at his eyes until they adjusted. And then he took in his surroundings. 

“Oh, no,” he said. A body bag sat at the feet of an ajar door. A door he had just crawled out of. “Oh, no. No, no. This is not good.”

Peter ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled slowly. A morgue. He was in a goddamn morgue. This was so not good. 

“Okay, okay, Peter,” he mumbled. “Breathe. Just breathe.” He glanced down. “And find some clothes.”

Finding a hospital gown had been easy, but calming his anxiety proved to be more difficult than usual. Peter padded down the long, fluorescent hallway and pushed down any fear that overwhelmed him. He wasn’t sure where he was or why he was there. And he wasn’t sure how he got there. The only thing on his mind was getting out of there and just _going home_. 

He escaped through an emergency exit without looking back. 

Peter had never been so relieved to breathe in fresh air before. He was thankful for the night sky, for the distant car horns and city lights. He was thankful to feel the sidewalk beneath him as he walked down a familiar street, following flickering lamps and the neon shop signs in his neighborhood. 

He didn’t know what time it was. He didn’t know what day it was. Yet none of that seemed to matter as he stumbled toward his block with a hankering for a waffle and a hug from his aunt. Lastly, Peter didn’t know why he felt so off. So wrong. Weak, sad, and a little empty. And he didn’t know why he was so motivated to see May as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks. 

The last thing he remembered was vague. It was a foggy memory filled with Lucky Charms and Peter finding his lost student I.D. in the staircase of his apartment building. He didn’t bother searching for answers within himself—he had a feeling they would come in due time.

After ten minutes of walking, Peter stood before the front door to his apartment with his heart racing in his chest. Something was off. Something was wrong. 

And after another ten minutes passed of non-stop knocking, he knew that to be true. He let out a frustrated sigh, crumpled the skirt of his gown in his hands, and rushed toward the nearest hallway window. The sight of him crawling a brick building to the fire escape off of his room would be enough to freak anyone out—in a hospital gown nonetheless. 

He fell into his bed right away once he slipped through his window. The room was stale, but he didn’t stay long. He changed out of the gown and into sweats with a t-shirt before starting his search for May. It didn’t matter that his alarm clock read 2:12 AM; he knew, for some reason, he needed to see her. 

“May?” he called out into the dark apartment. It was eerily quiet aside from the hum of an occasional car on the street below. He crept open the door of her room, peeked inside, and whispered, “May?” again. 

Her bed was empty. 

Peter furrowed his brows and headed back to his room where his phone sat charging on his desk. He had a few dozen missed calls and texts from everyone he knew. 

But he ignored them and called May instead. He tried her three times with no answer. He tried Ned, MJ—anyone he could think of before his anxiety became too heavy in his chest. 

Peter didn’t want to bother Tony. A part of him convinced him that he had no other choice. 

“C’mon, Tony,” Peter mumbled, dialing him once again. “Just pick up the stupid phone.”

After three rings, there was a small click. 

Peter let out a sigh of relief. “Hey—oh, thank God, Mister Stark,” Peter said, closing his eyes with a smile. “I was so freaked out that everyone like, disappeared for some reason cos’ May’s not home and Ned’s not answering his phone. And then you weren’t answering, so I was like _‘oh, my God, I woke up in some alternative universe where I’m the only person alive’_ but then you answered, which is relieving. Hi. Do you know where May is?”

Tony didn’t answer for a few seconds. His voice was small when it finally came through. “Peter?”

“Yeah?” Peter raised a brow. “You okay? Shoot, did I wake you? I told you to turn your ringer off at night, Mister Stark. You know I like to call at the most inconvenient times.”

Tony stayed silent. 

“Should I call you later?”

“No, no…” Tony said breathlessly. “Pete, I—this… this is a fever dream. It’s gotta be.”

“You think you’re in a fever dream?” Peter asked. “I just woke up in a morgue.”

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Tony muttered with a groan. “Oh, I need to see a therapist. This is not good. This is— _fuck._ ” 

Peter frowned and checked the clock beside his bed. It wasn’t even half-past two in the morning. “Should I come over there?” he wondered, sneaking on a pair of shoes. “You sound like you’re freaking out. Are you freaking out?”

Tony’s laugh was unsettling through the phone. “Oh wow, oh man,” he continued to mutter to himself. “Am I freaking out? _Am I freaking out?_ God. _Fuck._ This is a prank.” 

“Yeah, you sound bad,” Peter said. “I’m coming over there.”

Peter didn’t bother staying on the phone as he searched in his closet for his suit. But it wasn’t there. It was nowhere to be found. His shoulders deflated. _God_ , no, he thought. Absolutely not. 

He had to swing all the way to Tony’s Upper East Side home in his spider sweatsuit, clunky web-shooters and all. 

On the way over, his mind was stuffed full of weird thoughts—things he could hardly fathom, things such as waking up in a morgue in the middle of Queens with no explanation as to why. He couldn’t access that memory. It was as if it didn’t exist. 

When Peter landed on the front stoop leading up to Tony’s brass-knockered door, something held him back. Whether it was the dark, heavy mass weighing down his chest or the mismatched thoughts buzzing in his brain, he still felt as though something was off. Something was wrong. 

The door was already unlocked. FRIDAY didn’t announce his presence as she had in times past, but Peter chalked it up to common courtesy for it being so early in the morning. 

His nerves didn’t go away once he walked in. He fumbled with the cloth mask in his hands, a little embarrassed that he had to wear that god awful suit again, and snuck through the foyer slowly. 

“Mister Stark?” he whispered harshly. “You’re not gonna sneak up on me and murder me, right? Cos’ that’d be really mean.”

A hint of light emitted from the kitchen into the narrow foyer. Peter’s stomach turned as he stepped through the entryway. Tony sat at the kitchen counter, head in his hands with the mug Peter had gifted him sitting on its side. A bottle of whiskey was within arms reach. 

“Mister Stark?” Peter croaked. “You awake?”

Tony’s head shot up, eyes wide and watery with the stove light reflecting in them. He didn’t say anything. 

“Are you okay?” Peter continued, stepping closer. “Are—are you drunk? Is Pepper here?”

Still, Tony stayed silent. His hair was disheveled, his face flushed and pallid. His hands sat flat on the counter while his fingers twitched against the marble. 

Peter set his mask down. “Couldn’t find my other suit,” he said with a chuckle. “S’kinda embarrassing. I don’t know if I lost it or—”

“You didn’t lose it,” Tony said. He hadn’t blinked since Peter entered the room. 

“Did you take it?”

Tony’s jaw clenched tight, lips thinning as his eyes hardened. “What have I done to deserve this?” he asked, ice in every word. The anger seeping through caused Peter to back up a few feet. “What the _hell_ have I done to…”

He stopped himself short once his eyes glassed over. After a few moments, he picked up his mug and shakily poured himself more whiskey. 

Peter reached over and held his hand to keep him from pouring anymore. Tony’s eyes blew wide. But he wouldn’t look at Peter again. He only stared at their hands as if it was the worst thing to ever happen to him. 

“Mister Stark, what’s going on?” Peter asked. “You’re freaking me out.”

“You…” Tony breathed out. “You’re not… real.”

Peter knitted his eyebrows together as he forced Tony’s hand to set the whiskey down. “Pretty sure I’m real,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be—”

The morgue. The body bag. None of it made sense. It didn’t make sense. 

Peter sat in the stool beside Tony, his movements slow and calculated. “I’m real,” he said. “I’m not—I’m not dead. I’m real.”

Tony only shook his head and held his mug up to his lips. He winced at the taste of the brown liquid before a tight grimace took over. “Not real,” he muttered, nostrils flaring. 

Peter didn’t know how else to convince his drunken mentor other than to poke his cheek. “Can a fake person do that?” he asked. “Dang, you need a shave.” 

Tony’s gaze fell back onto Peter, and as he frowned, his eyes widened slowly. “Peter,” he whispered. He held a hand to Peter’s cheek. “P-Peter, you’re—”

“Real.”

“Real.”

Peter smiled. “Yeah.”

“That’s not—” Tony shook his head and retracted his hand. “That’s not possible. You died. I-I saw you die. You died.”

Peter had the unsettling suspicion, but he had still refused to believe it was true. He wasn’t sure anymore. He wasn’t sure what to feel or how he felt.

“Yeah, and then I woke up in a morgue,” he said, shrugging. “Maybe I just went into hibernation or something.”

Tony set his head in his hands, letting his shoulders cave in over the mug Peter was still so proud of finding. The man’s breathing was ragged, almost on the verge of hyperventilation yet not quite there. After a long sigh, Tony looked back over at Peter with sad, sunken eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping. 

“How the hell is this possible?” Tony breathed out, eyebrows furrowing. “How are you alive? How—did I miss something? Is this some new fucked up superpower? Is this—is this a _joke?_ Cos’ it’s not fucking funny. If this is a joke—”

“No, no.” Peter shook his head feverishly. “It’s not. I swear. I honestly don’t know what’s happening right now. I-I just woke up.”

“In a morgue?”

He nodded. 

“God, that’s brutal.” 

“Tell me about it,” Peter muttered. “I thought I was gonna die in there.”

Tony shot him a hard glare. 

“Sorry.” 

“I don’t know if you’re just a figment of my imagination, or maybe some blue-balled dimwit decided to lace my drink with hallucinogenic drugs,” Tony said, rubbing at the few beads of sweat above his eyebrow. “But on the off-chance I’m not going crazy…”

“What can I do?” Peter asked. “Do you want me to slap you? I won’t enjoy it, but I can totally slap you if you think it’ll help.”

Tony chuckled as he turned the mug around in his hands, yet the smile never lasted. He looked at Peter like he hadn’t seen him in years. Without warning, Tony threw his arms around Peter and held him tight. 

“Oh,” Peter said. “This is nice.” 

Soft creaks from the stairwell in the foyer tore their attention away from the hug. As Tony pulled back, he stood slowly and pressed a finger to his lips. He motioned for Peter to stay before heading off into the foyer without another word. 

“Oh, _Jesus_ ,” another person whispered—to Peter, it sounded a lot like May. “Sorry, Tony. You scared the crap out of me.”

“Think I was a ghost?” Tony teased, voice low. 

“Sort of—thought I was hearing voices down here,” she said. “Sounded like… are you okay?’

“Oh, yeah,” he muttered, and Peter almost laughed at the soft squeak of his voice. “Yeah, I’m good. Can’t sleep. But what’s new, y’know?”

“It’s been nice and peaceful upstairs without your snoring.”

“Okay, I definitely don’t snore,” Tony replied. “Did Pep tell you that I snore?”

Peter smiled at the sound of May’s laughter. 

“I’m joking, Tony,” she said. “It’s fun. You should try it sometime.” 

His chuckle echoed from the foyer into the kitchen. “It’ll come back to me,” he said. “What’re you—uh, what are you doing?”

“Well, as any normal human would, I’m getting some water.”

“Water, yeah, okay—wait, before you go in there—”

Peter sat up straight, heart stammering in his chest as their voices drew near. If what Tony said was true—if Peter had died after all—he couldn’t imagine what May was going through. She wasn’t at home. She was here. What if she _couldn’t_ go home?”

“Is something gonna explode in my face?” May asked Tony. 

“No, uh—”

When May entered the kitchen clad in her pajamas, she had been looking at Tony with an amused grin. He, however, was staring right at Peter. She followed his gaze.

At the sight of Peter, she let out a yelp, hands covering her mouth as her horror washed over her expression. She stood there, frozen in place, and all Peter could do was smile and wave. 

May turned her attention back to Tony once her eyes started to water. “Am I dreaming?” she asked breathlessly. 

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” Tony answered. “But I don’t know anymore.”

“You’re not, May, I swear,” Peter told her, standing up. “I know you guys think I died or whatever—and believe me, I’m still kinda freaking out about it myself, but I swear, I’m okay. I’m alive.”

“Peter,” she said, and her expression crumbled. “Oh, my God. Peter?”

Once her tears fell, Peter’s did too. And when she held him, she held him tighter than she ever had before. Something terrible must have happened, Peter thought, but he didn’t have a single memory of it. The most terrifying part of all was that it didn’t shock him to think about. 

May cried as she held his face, and she tried to smile through it as best as she could. “How is this even possible?” she asked. “How can you be—is this some new power you have? What is this?”

“I really don’t know, May, honest,” he said. “I just woke up in a morgue and, _ta-da,_ now I’m here, I guess.”

She blinked. “You woke up in a _morgue?”_

“Yeah, it was kind of morbid.”

“Peter.” She wrapped her arms around him again, and he never wanted her to let go. He could almost feel her pain. He didn’t know what death was like—he didn’t remember it all. But they knew. If he had been dead, then the pain they felt was impalpable. 

Peter didn’t know anything anymore. 

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” she said to him, holding him tight.

“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”

* * *

Ned woke up nauseous again, but this time, he knew the feeling wouldn’t subside. In a few short hours, he was expected to give a speech in Peter’s memory. He was expected to stand up in front of hundreds of strangers—quite possibly more—and not throw up the minute he started speaking. He didn’t want to get out of bed. He didn’t want to wake up at all.

He turned over on his side, buried himself deep beneath the covers, and reached for his phone. It was 9:35 AM, and he had two missed calls. _Spam_ , he thought, closing his eyes. 

The caller ID warbled in his head for a moment. It had been a name, a contact he already had in his phone. As the image became clearer in his head, Ned sat up and checked his phone once again. 

Two missed calls from Peter. 2:14 AM. No voicemails.

Ned believed that his eyes were wide enough to pop out of his head. His breathing picked up while he blinked rapidly, an attempt to snap back to a reality where Peter’s name wasn’t on his phone. Nevertheless, it stayed. 

As Ned rose to his feet, he stared at his phone in disbelief. He had to tap a few times to resurrect the screen once it turned dark. 

He knew it wasn’t Peter calling—it couldn’t have been. Dead people didn’t call their friends at two in the morning unless they were buried alive and needed help getting out. _Oh, my God. Was Peter buried alive?_

Ned’s thumb hovered over the notification, but instead of calling the number back, he called MJ instead. She would know what to say. She would tell him that he was imagining things, he would agree with her, and that would be it. 

“God, what the hell, dude?” she muttered after a few rings. “Why’re you calling me before ten? It’s the weekend.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” said Ned hastily. He had started to pace. “I'm freaking out a little.”

“Okay, relax,” she told him. “If this is about the speech today, you’re gonna be fine. Just promise me that you’ll pee your pants a little so I can get some amusement out of this.” 

Ned shook his head despite the fact that she couldn’t see him. “No, it’s not that, I—” He took a breath. “I just woke up to two missed calls from _Peter_.”

“Uh. What?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but I swear they’re there,” he said. “I got them like, seven hours ago.”

“Well, did you try calling back?” MJ asked. 

“I was too scared to.”

“Not to be an ass, but it’s not like he’s gonna be there to pick up the phone,” she said, voice falling softer than her usual tone.

Ned had forgotten about his nausea, but he still didn’t feel well. It felt as though someone had a tight grip on his throat and refused to let go. “I know, _I know_ ,” he muttered. “It’s just weird, don’t you think? Did you get a call?”

“No, I don’t—” MJ sounded distant for a moment, and she didn’t reply for another few seconds. “I did.”

“What?”

“I have a missed call from Peter.”

Ned sat down on the edge of his bed and held his chest. “It’s not him, right? I-I mean, of course it’s not him,” he said, chuckling. “Why would it be him? That’s not—that’s crazy. What if he’s a zombie?”

“No, it’s not him,” MJ replied coolly. Somehow, she still sounded as horrified as him. “It can’t be. That’d be ludicrous. He’s—he’s not…” 

_Alive_ , Ned almost said, but the word tasted sour on his tongue. 

His phone vibrated beneath his hand, and a text from May appeared on the screen. 

**_Hey, Ned. If you’re not too busy, would you mind stopping by this address before the service today? Bring MJ if possible. I think Tony wants to go over a few things._ **

**_51 E 67th Street near Central Park_ ** **❤️**

“You still there, dude?” MJ asked.

Ned set the phone back against his ear. “Y-yeah. Yeah. May wants us to go to Tony Stark’s house.”

MJ scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

Ned didn’t reply.

“Oh, you’re serious?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t really wanna meet Tony Stark,” she told him, sighing. “He’s not just some pompous creep, is he?”

Ned shrugged to himself. “I dunno. Didn't seem like it to me.”

MJ groaned. “Fine. Meet me at Sutphin station in thirty minutes. Don’t be late.”

* * *

MJ kept staring at her phone on the train ride into the city. She couldn’t stop reading over Peter’s name to make sure she hadn’t been imagining it all along. Ned, on the occasion, did the same. With a press of a button, she could call the number back if she wanted, but something was stopping her. The possibility of it being a stupid prank. The possibility of it being a zombified Peter Parker, begging to eat her brains. The possibility of the past few days being nothing but a horrible dream. The possibility of it actually being him.

She decided to pocket her phone and not look at it for the rest of the day. That was the easiest part—the next few hours would be the hardest. 

If she could step back, take a breath, and allow the reality to sink in, she wanted to believe that it wouldn’t be this hard. Truth be told, for the past few days, MJ had been pretending that Peter was still alive. She sent him texts—stupid memes and videos that made her think of him. She thought about the classes they would take together next year and the jokes they would make about teachers. She visualized the moment he finally decided to tell her that he was Spider-Man. 

MJ hadn’t let herself cry since the news first broke. She didn’t want Peter to be dead, so in her head, he wasn’t. 

Her knee bounced as they approached their destination. And while they walked the few blocks to 67th Street, Ned talked about midterms and she kept silent, mind reserved for her intrusive thoughts. She didn’t think about the fact that she hadn’t met Tony yet, and she didn’t care. Because while Peter’s name sat next to a missed call notification on her phone, she couldn’t care about anything else. 

Ned laughed nervously after ringing the buzzer beside the door. “I should’ve worn a tie,” he said, glancing down at his button-down and cardigan. “I feel stupidly underdressed.”

The door swung open after that, revealing a sickly-looking billionaire with a bird’s nest for a head of hair. He had on a torn Iron Maiden shirt and joggers, and his beard hadn’t been touched-up in a week or two. 

“The tots are here,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Um, yeah. Come on in.” 

MJ scrunched up her nose as she stepped by a man who failed to recognize that sleep was a necessity. But the disgust quickly faded away at the sight of the intricate yet modern foyer around her. It simultaneously smelled of lavender and vanilla, and without thinking, she slipped her shoes off by the door. 

Tony’s expression twisted over a few times as he led them down the foyer. It was as if he had something to say but wasn’t sure how to say it. He tilted his head toward an entryway. 

MJ raised an eyebrow at him as she entered a living room. She ran into Ned in the process. 

“Dude, don’t just stop—” 

The entire dictionary of words slipped from her mind. Peter’s smile was the only thing she could see, and it was growing by the second. Her heart ached at the sight of him; she almost forgot that he wasn’t supposed to be there at all. 

She didn’t question it. She had wanted to believe that he was alive all along, and she was still going to no matter what. Instead of speaking, MJ walked across the room toward him and threw her arms around his shoulders. She couldn’t breathe. 

A chuckle vibrated through his chest as he held her back, and she squeezed her eyes closed. The minute she pulled away, Ned was right behind her, gawking and hugging Peter before he could speak coherently. 

MJ noticed May watching the quiet interaction with tears in her eyes. And when she looked at MJ with the sweetest smile, MJ didn’t know what else to do other than hug her too. 

“I’ve never felt so loved before,” Peter said to all of them. “This is nice. Can it always be like this?” 

“So what, your plan is to keep dying so we can show you affection?” Tony said from the doorway. “Yeah. No.” 

“You really died then?” MJ asked, still unable to find a steady pace to breathe. “You—you didn’t pretend to be so you could prank us? You’re really back?”

Peter nodded, lips curling into a soft smile. “I’m not that good at pranks, believe me,” he said. “And I’m not that mean.”

“Okay, but wait,” Ned said, “how is this possible?” 

A quick moment of silence filled the room before Peter shrugged. From behind them, Tony said, “tell ‘em about the morgue.”

MJ’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“I woke up in a morgue.”

“Sick,” she said as Ned whispered, “holy shit.” 

“Does this mean I don’t have to give a speech?” Ned said, shock slowly wearing off as a smile grew on his cheeks. 

“Is that really what you’re worried about right now?” MJ asked him. “Not the fact that Peter was literally dead and then, days later, resurrected like Jesus? Don’t tell me you can heal people now because I don’t think I could handle that.”

Peter shook his head, cheeks flushing slightly. “No. No. But—” He furrowed his brows and looked over at Tony. “That has to be why I’m alive then.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cos’ I can heal faster than everyone else,” he said before glancing at MJ. “Oh, I’m Spider-Man, by the way.”

She raised her brows and smiled. “Yeah. I’ve known.”

“So, you think you healed yourself from the dead?” Tony suggested.

“Maybe,” Peter said, lips twisting. “Or this is just something else. I don’t exactly know what was in the spider that bit me. There could be a lot of things I don’t know. Maybe I’m just immortal.”

MJ snickered. “You’re not a _god_ , Peter.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t that be so cool?”

“No one answered my question about the speech,” Ned interjected.

MJ rolled her eyes. She wasn’t sure how to identify the feeling in her chest, warm and heavy as the reality of the moment started to hit her. Peter was there in the flesh. Smiling at her. Laughing at her jokes again. She didn’t care about how he came back to life. All that mattered was that he was there. _He was_ _alive_. 

Within the hour, the memorial service was cancelled, the press were called off, and the world had yet to know about Spider-Man. About Peter. The eight of them—including Tony’s fiancée Pepper, his friend Rhodey (who Ned freaked out over because _holy shit, that’s War Machine!_ ), and a man called Happy—insisted on brunch before Spider-Man’s miraculous resurrection could be brought to light. 

As they walked down the street, MJ lagged a few feet behind with Peter trailing with her. She had a thousand things to say yet still came up empty. Everything had a moment. Everything had a time. All she could figure out what to say was, “I missed you.”

She could see Peter’s smile out of the corner of her eye. 

And when she added in, “loser” under her breath, his laughter filled her heart. 

* * *

Tony thought he was alone that night, nothing but himself, his workshop, and a brand new suit for the web-slinging teenager. Being alone with his thoughts proved to be dangerous and unhelpful. He still hadn’t slept. From two in the morning until now, his mind had been preoccupied elsewhere. 

Here he was, making Peter a new suit because he had come back to life. Or maybe he had never truly died at all. Nevertheless—no matter how badly Tony craved an answer—there wasn’t use questioning it. It could forever remain a mystery, but nothing mattered as long as Peter was still alive and cracking poorly-timed jokes to cheer up Tony after a long day. 

Whatever was in the kid’s DNA had him waking up in a body bag three days after being pronounced dead. If he could never truly die, the circumstance would one day kill him alone. 

Tony’s watch read half-past nine in the evening. He was winding down, expecting sleep within the hour, but a knock on his door kept him from dozing off over the synthetic suit. Its stitchwork had another twenty minutes to go. 

“You busy?” Peter asked from the doorway of the workshop. He still had on the sweater Tony let him borrow. 

Tony ushered him in with a nod of the head. “Thought you left an hour ago,” he said, grabbing a handful of popcorn from a bowl nearby. His late-night munchies returned in full force once he found out that Peter was alive. 

“May’s still talking with Miss Potts,” Peter said.

“You know, calling people by their first name isn’t a crime, Mister Parker.”

He cracked a grin as he approached Tony at a workbench. “Hypocrite.”

“I call you by a million different names,” Tony said through a mouthful of popcorn. “My personal favorite is _weird kid that won’t leave me alone_.” 

Peter pressed a hand to his chest with a pout. “You think I’m weird? That’s harsh, Mister Stark. After everything we’ve been through together.”

Tony could genuinely smile without feeling guilty about it. Any smile he wore over the past few days hadn’t felt real. It had made him feel ashamed for expressing anything other than grief. Tony’s smile fell, and Peter took notice. 

“I’m sorry I scared you guys,” Peter said, picking at the sleeves of his sweater. “I kinda wish I could remember what happened, but I’m also glad I don’t, I guess. I wouldn’t wanna remember what death feels like.”

Hearing Peter talk about his own death was something Tony never thought he’d experience. The kid knew nothing about those few days. He knew nothing about how he died—still didn’t truly believe that he had—and there was no pain to remind him. 

A sinking feeling rooted in Tony’s gut. 

“Pete—” He exhaled slowly. “—you have access to everything that happened that night, you know.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Your mask may have been ripped in half, but it recorded everything,” Tony explained. His fingers fidgeted against the table as he spoke. The idea of watching Peter die again made him sick to his stomach. “You have access to the night you died. If you ever want to know what happened, it’s gonna be right in there.” He pointed to the suit that was being created behind him. 

Peter frowned, eyebrows drawing in. “Don’t know if I have the strength for that,” he said. He huffed out a laugh to pretend it didn’t upset him too. 

“Or I can just erase the footage and we can pretend this never happened,” Tony said. “Lord knows I’ve already been doing it.”

Peter shook his head. “No, no. Don’t erase it. I might—I don’t know. I might wanna see it for myself one day. It’s just weird now. Like, I still don’t know how to believe it cos’ I can’t remember it. But it makes too much sense. And it makes no sense at the same time.”

“Yeah, I get that, Pete,” Tony muttered. He set a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “But all we have to do is make sure it never happens again, ‘kay? So no more dying. No more situations where you _might_ die.”

“That’s like, every day.”

“Then I’ll put a child lock on everything you own and dial back the protocols in the suit to one,” Tony said. “Sound good?”

“Sounds bad actually.”

Tony laughed, resting his arm around Peter before reaching up to ruffle his hair. He squirmed away at the feeling. 

“I should probably go find May,” Peter muttered, shying back into himself as he neared the door. “I just wanted to say hi. And then bye, I guess.”

“Hi and bye,” Tony said with a smile. “And, by the way, Pete, I figured you’d wanna know that Rhodey shed a few tears for you. You should feel special cos’ he doesn’t do that for just anybody. And he won’t admit it if you bring it up, which is why I’m telling you.”

A grin spread across Peter’s cheeks. “I thought he thought I was annoying,” he said. 

“Yeah, well—” Tony shrugged, tossing a piece of popcorn in his mouth. “—turns out he can like you _and_ find you annoying.”

“Sick,” Peter said under his breath. “War Machine likes me.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.” 

“Too late—already happening,” he replied. “See you later, Mister Stark. If I see a rat on the train, I’ll send you a picture.” 

Tony chuckled. “Gross. Can’t wait. Oh, and Pete?”

Peter turned around on his way out the door. 

_I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you’re alive. I missed you. God, I missed you. Don’t ever do that again. I missed you._ The words were trapped on Tony’s tongue. 

“No more dying,” was what he said instead.

Yet Peter seemed to know exactly what he was trying to say. He left with a smile. 

* * *

Peter stirred awake a few hours after he fell asleep. What had been a typical bathroom break in the middle of a dreamless sleep turned into pacing the tiled floors at three in the morning. Peter’s heart rate skyrocketed up beyond ninety. He remembered something. He remembered dying.

It was only a snippet—something so minuscule, he hardly believed it was real, but it burned in his memory like the fire that surrounded it. There was smoke. There was Tony telling him he was proud of him. Thankful for him. And that was it. 

For the first time since waking up in that morgue, Peter truly felt that he had come back to life. He was terrified. 

He didn’t know enough about his powers to debunk anything new. Questions swarmed in his head as he clutched the edge of the sink, feeling the vinyl crack beneath his grip. Staring up at his reflection felt like looking at a ghost. How could he have been dead? That stuff wasn’t possible. People didn’t resurrect days after dying in their mentor’s arms. 

Peter was a sixteen-year-old kid from Queens who happened upon a mutant spider one day. He didn’t deserve _immortality_ or whatever it was. Sometimes he felt as though he didn’t deserve his powers. They terrified him. They would always be a mystery, and if they were only getting stronger, then Peter was afraid of himself as well. He didn’t want to live every day fearing himself. 

He had enough of staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The skin beneath his eyes prickled and burned. Before he could stop himself, he was walking into May’s bedroom on the verge of tears. 

“May,” he said loud enough for her to hear. 

She turned over in bed, immediately sitting up and turning on a lamp once she realized it was him. “Pete—?” Her voice was soft, tired, and she could barely open her eyes. “You okay?”

He shook his head. “I’m freaking out.” 

“Come here,” she said, motioning to Ben’s side of the bed. “Come here. You’re okay. What’s wrong?”

Peter crawled beneath the covers, settling into the pillow so he could allow himself to truly _feel_. Because he felt off. He felt wrong. And he had all day long. Maybe he was never meant to come back. Maybe he would never feel whole again. 

He didn’t know how to say any of that as he cried. May ran a hand through his hair and let the silence calm his tears. 

“I-I think I remember it,” he said and clutched the blanket tighter. May’s hand froze on his head. “Dying. It felt… empty. Freeing. Like it was the most relaxed I had ever been. And now I just feel restless and scared. I feel wrong.”

“Oh, Peter,” she whispered. 

“I’m really glad I’m alive, May,” he said, looking up at her. “I am. I just—I can’t help but feel like I’m not supposed to be here right now. Like I wasn’t supposed to come back. A-and I’m so terrified that I’ll be stuck like this. Like my soul split apart when I died. There’s probably a horcrux out there with a piece of me in it.”

“And I bet it’s a LEGO.” 

“ _May_ ,” Peter whined, trying not to laugh as a few more tears slipped down his cheeks. “I really am freaking out.”

“I know, Peter, I know,” she said softly. “But you’re okay. And I’m so glad you’re okay. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this much relief in my life. I have you back. Your friends have you back. You’re okay.”

The corners of his lips twitched. “I’m glad to be back,” he told her. “I didn’t even know I was gone. I’m just so afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Dying. Never dying.”

He let the words hang in the hair before continuing. He tried to focus on the feeling of May’s hand in his hair so he could steady his breathing. 

“I don’t wanna watch everyone I love die when I can’t,” he said. “What if I just can’t die? Do I stop aging? I don’t—I can’t think about it or I’ll—”

“Peter,” May said, voice calm yet stern. “I obviously can’t tell you what to think. I can’t tell you a single thing about your powers. But I know what it’s like to fear. And I know quite a few things about death as well. I also know that you are the smartest, kindest, and strongest person I know. You have been given a chance. A second chance. The important question to ask yourself is—what are you gonna do with it? Are you gonna worry yourself sick or live the best damn life you can live?”

Peter brought the blanket up to his lips once he felt the tears threaten to fall again.

“You are Peter Parker,” she said. “You’re sixteen. You have a crush on a girl who clearly likes you back—”

He hid his faces under the covers and groaned. “ _May_.” 

May laughed as she pulled him back up. “You have so many awesome things ahead of you,” she continued. “That’s what you get to look forward to. Okay? Promise me you’re gonna focus on the future. We can just forget this happened. I mean, I’m not gonna let you out of my sight ever again, but we’re gonna move on. That’s what we do, yeah? We move on, we grow. We become better.”

Peter nodded, sitting himself up beside her along the headboard so he could hug her. “Thank you, May,” he mumbled into her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

She pulled away, smiled, and pushed back his hair so it was out of his eyes. “You scare me every day, Peter,” she told him, “but I trust you and I love you. And I’m so relieved that you’re okay. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“I love you too.” 

When he held her again, her words finally sunk in. He was going to be okay. He was alive, and he was okay.


End file.
